


Come Home With Me

by Fandomsrunmylife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandomsrunmylife/pseuds/Fandomsrunmylife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock wakes up in the bed of the man he met the night before he smells... Pancakes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Home With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Posting my second work here quite a bit later. This was originally a prompt from an anon on tumblr but it morphed into so much more. I will most likely be posting another part sometime in the future. Enjoy!

 

Sherlock's first thought when he wakes up is that he smells pancakes. He immediately abandons the idea, the man he met last night, making pancakes, it seems impossible.

 

_Sherlock arches into the mans touch, struggling halfheartedly against the cuffs that bind his hands to the headboard._

 

No. Sherlock thinks it has to be impossible. He gets out of the warm fluffy bed and, once realizing his own nakedness, grabs a pair of boxers, dark checkered pajama pants and a soft deep blue shirt from a drawer. Sherlock is sure the strange man won't mind. He wanders out of the bedroom and into a long hallway. The door directly across from the bedroom is shut tight but Sherlock remembers that it's the bathroom.

 

_"I'm just going to get something from the bathroom," the man says, the command to stay in the bedroom unsaid but clear. Sherlock decides to follow the man anyway, who just smiles as if the action was entirely predicable. To the trained mind it would have been. The man reaches for the tallest cabinet in the bathroom and pulls out black leather cuffs attached by a chain and gives Sherlock a purely sadistic smile. Sherlock just holds out his hands._

 

The door approximately six feet to the left is a door that ends the hallway in that direction. Presumably the guest bedroom, but because of who's flat it is Sherlock thinks it might be something a bit more interesting than that. Approximately eleven and a half feet to the left the hallway opens up into a large room. Sherlock walks that way, his feet making no sound on dark wooden floor. The hallway is spotless and fancy, the whole thing exuding the feeling of trying to seem unused and unlived in when really the opposite is true.

 

_Sherlock is pressed into the expensive wallpaper of the strange mans house, the man leaning up to kiss him forcefully against the hallway wall. He's being kissed ruthlessly, the mans hands digging into his wrists so hard Sherlock knows he'll have bruises in the morning._

 

Sherlock examines his wrists, dark bruises in the shape of fingerprints already blossoming on his pale skin. He pulls down his pants to look at his hips and finds the same thing there, and on his chest there are dark patches in the shape of the mans mouth. Sherlock aches in an almost painful way, but he doesn't mind. It's been a while since he felt this good.

 

_The man fucks him hard enough that the pleasure borderlines on pain. Switching back and forth between the two like a child trying to decide whether they want chocolate or sweets. Sherlock feels utterly and entirely used, he loves it._

 

Sherlock steps into the large room and can hardly believe his eyes. A large living room, with two couches and a giant screen tv sit at the back of the room surrounded by floor to ceiling windows. Off to the left a little is a state of the art kitchen, complete with an eating counter with four stools. But the most shocking thing is that the man is standing in the kitchen. He's wearing a tight white v-neck shirt and black sweatpants that cling to his perfect physique. And he is cooking pancakes, and there, sitting at the counter, is a little girl with long messy hair. She's wearing a purple nightgown and talking excitedly to the man. Sherlock decides to call out to him, to alert the man of his presence.

"James."

 

_“Wha- what is-,” Sherlock cuts himself off with a loud groan as the man slams back into him._

_“My name,” the man finishes his sentence for him and Sherlock can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “My name is James, James Moriarty. But you can call me Jim.”_

_“James,” Sherlock stutters out. “I like James better.”_

_James grabs a firstful of Sherlocks dark curls and yanks his head back._

_“ You know what Sherlock,” James hisses into his ear. “I like James better too.”_

 

“Sherlock,” James smiles a kind smile, one totally different from the sadistic smile of the night before. “You’re awake.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says quickly, his eyes trained on the small girl holding a glass of orange juice.

“Obviously,” the girl parrots back, clearly trying to mimic Sherlocks cutting tone. James laughs at the affronted look on Sherlock’s face and halfheartedly tries to pat down the girls hair.

“Irene love, please be nice to Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” James jokes with a vaguely scolding tone, flipping pancakes off the griddle and onto a well made plate.

“Irene?” Sherlock is surprised at how breathless his voice sounds. Impossible. That name. Irene Adler, all tight clothes and red lipstick, curling her body next to Sherlock’s by their lockers or in the lunchroom. Seeking him out in the vast halls of their high school, flipping her long dark hair over her shoulder and leaving Sherlock practically reeking of her perfume. This Irene may be young but her eyes, they’re exactly like his Irene's were. Dark and wide, all knowing and all seeing, captivating and far too mature. If Sherlock believed in resurrection he would think that the soul of his Irene escaped out of her mangled body and found its way into this little girl.

“Sherlock?,” James puts down the spatula and gives him a look of concern. “Sherlock are you okay?”

 

_“Sherlock are you okay?,” the man has just finished putting on the cuffs and Sherlock is shaking. His arms are stretched out above his head, pulled tight, his shoulders locked, his back arched and breathing tight. Sherlock feels glorious, gloriously in pain._

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies evenly, walking over softly and sliding himself onto the stool one away from Irene.

“Sherlock?,” Irene asks sweetly, putting her juice on the counter and looking up at him with wide eyes. “Why are you here?”

“He’s an old friend of mine," James turns off the gridle and puts a heaping plate of pancakes on the table in front of Irene and Sherlock.

Irene furrows her brow before shrugging in acceptance of the statement. James pulls out three plates, three forks, two knives and lays them out, putting his place setting inbetween Sherlock and Irene. He grabs maple syrup, all natural, from the fridge and sets it down on the counter before sitting down. The eating counter is shaped ingeniously, a slight curve alowwing all of them to see each other, yet the curve isn't to big to be uncomfortable when you sit.

James puts three pancakes on Irene's plate before giving Sherlock four, and then three for himself. Sherlock watches in extrodinarally rare confusion as James cuts the little girls pancakes for her and pours syrup on top.

"Sherlock would you like syrup for your pancakes?," James offers the small glass bottle to him. "Eat. You're far to skinny."

 

_"You're far to skinny," James is straddling Sherlock, running his fingers down Sherlock ribcage. He takes his time doing it, sliding his finger along each individual rib one at a time with surgical, but not clinical, precision. Sherlock just growls in response, thrusting his hips into empty air._

_"Dear me Sherlock, so impatient. Tell me how long it's been since you eaten," James says slowly, the last part an order, not a question._

_"A real meal? What day is it?," Sherlock hisses out._

_"Friday," James stops his exploration of Sherlock's ribcage and presses both palms into Sherlock's chest, pinning him down even more than he was already._

_"Three days, four hours, and approximately half an hour," Sherlock says quickly, his heart starting up a faint beat of what Sherlock thinks is fear. It's been a long time since he felt the emotion. He loves it._

 

Something in the way James offers him the bottle makes Sherlock think he doesn't really have a choice. Sherlock takes it carefully, going to great pains to make sure their fingers don't touch. He could swear James rolls his eyes as Sherlock douses his pancakes in syrup and sulkily takes a bite. Irene giggles.

 

_The man giggles. He has the audacity to giggle. Sherlock is suddenly glad for the lack of light in the bar because he's sure his cheeks have flushed with anger._

_"I'm leaving," Sherlock snaps angrily, a small feeling of disappointment curling in his gut._

_"No," the man suddenly turns sober, grabbing Sherlock's wrist with an iron grip and dangerous gaze. "Stay."_

_How could Sherlock say no._

 

The food has been eaten, the plates put into the sink and Irene is watching tv in the living room area. Sherlock knows he should go. He's stayed far to long, yet he cannot stop the panic he feels from welling up inside him. Sherlock wants to stay. He wants to. More than he's wanted in such a very long time. No. He pushed down the panic and stands up forcefully.

"I'm leaving," Sherlock forces the words out of his mouth, every atom in his body rejecting the idea.

"Alright," surprisingly James doesn't put up a fight, just puts down the dishes he's washing and tries to hide the disipointment in his eyes.

"I'll go get dressed then."

"Okay."

Sherlock hesitates and takes a deep breath before turning away from James and walking stiffly to the bedroom.

 

_Sherlock is pulled into the man's bedroom, their hands intwined and interlocked. Unintelligible from one another in the darkness of the rooms. The man kisses Sherlock and strips him of his coat as Sherlock does the same to him. Shoes, socks, and shirts are shed quickly and Sherlock goes back to desperately kissing the man. Human contact. Sherlock is starved for it, it's been months since he was touched properly. Sherlock needs it. He hates it. Hates his need._

 

Sherlock strips himself of James's shirt and pants, letting them drop to the floor of the immaculate room. Dirtying it with his very presence. Sherlock manages to find his own clothing and puts it only as slowly as he lets himself get away with. He feels slow, his brain crowded with feeling. He hates it. Pants first, then socks, shoes and then shirt. Sherlock does the bottons of his purple shirt slowly, and tucks it into his pants with unusual carefulness. His coat, Sherlock scans the whole room before determining the coat isn't in there. He leaves quickly, denying the urge to look back. It takes all his strength.

When he walks into the main room James is standing by the front door, Sherlocks's scarf and coat hanging from his hands. Sherlock accepts them silently, a feeling of gloom hanging in the air.

"Bye," Irene peers over the edge of the couch and waves with one tiny pale hand, her eyes all dark and wide.

"Goodbye," Sherlock manages to say while putting on his coat and winding his scarf around his neck. He turns to James, "I can show myself out."

"Alright," James looks Sherlock in the eyes and gives an odd sort of sad smile. "Goodbye Sherlock."

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time, something rattling oddly. It's coming from his left pocket. Sherlock reaches into his pockets and pulls out a pair of black leather cuffs and a key, the message unsaid but clear. He's invited back.

"Sherlock!" James's desperate voice calls out and Sherlock whips around to see him standing at the foot of the stairs, his face flushed and his breathing heavy.

James comes closer and presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips before bounding away up the stairs. Sherlock stands there for a good minute, his lips tingling and his mind frozen before he makes a decision. Sherlock walks out of the building with one clear thought in his mind, he will be back.

 

_The man leans across the booth and presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips._

_"Come home with me."_


End file.
